Country Club Lane || Wednesday, 9.21am
It smells like the inside of a discount fare airplane.
The floor is rimed with dislodged dust.
The bare wires hanging from bare walls are a decent approximation of how I feel when I look around.
Jamie and her family left today, for greener (and more humid) pastures. Funny the way things creep up on a person. I was warned of this day since January.
Warning doesn’t mitigate the dropping of a bomb.
If I want to live coming and leaving and coming again, I guess it’s only fair that others should be entitled to the same.
But being left is hollow and dark, no matter how much you might applaud the other’s leaving.
The new family is installed. I like meeting new people. I think I’ll learn a lot from them. But we’re all starting from nowhere, and pointed toward different places in the end. This house has become a way station on the Appalachian Trail.
I feel a strange weight of responsibility. Which, upon reflection, is probably the unusual feeling of entire responsibility for myself. The days of living off someone else’s domestic stability are ended.
I feel afraid to move, lest I be carried too far and everyone be too busy being responsible for themselves to rescue me.